


Morgen!

by phantomunmasked



Category: Major Crimes (TV), The Closer
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:37:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5081431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomunmasked/pseuds/phantomunmasked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A songfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morgen!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fortunatefolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunatefolly/gifts).



> A prompt fic, based on Richard Strauss' magnificent setting of John Henrey Mackay's text "Morgen!" 
> 
> More information on the song here, including the original German text: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morgen!
> 
> Here's Renee Fleming's version, that Andrea is presumably listening to in this fic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qURtlClAkGU
> 
> Hope y'all like, I've not written in a while.

_Bzzt._

_Bzzt bzzt._

Andrea jerked awake, jaw clicking shut as she fumbled for her buzzing phone. Blearily, she blinked at the soft blue glow, swiping a thumb across the bottom even as she stifled a yawn.

Three messages from Sharon.

“Andrea, I’m so sorry,” the first one read, and she hummed in resignation. She knew Sharon was tied up in a case; she knew the moment the clock struck 7.23 on their 7pm dinner reservation. So she merely raised an eyebrow at the waiter’s simpering, pitying smile, paid for the delicious (if lonesome) risotto, and left. It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, she knew.

The next message was longer, a slightly harried text explaining the high profile nature of the murder they had caught, the timeline that Chief Taylor had yoked them to.

Andrea shook her head; sometimes, she really hated that man.

(not least because more than once, she had spotted him surreptitiously sliding a hand across Sharon’s lower back, a move that her lover had tolerated with uncomfortable grace even as Andrea glowered at the him)

Andrea tipped her head back, exhaled long through her nose as she raised an arm, squinted at the time on her watch.

11.53pm.

An overnighter it was for Sharon, then.

Andrea let her arm flop back onto the sofa, thudding unceremoniously onto the casenote she had been reading.

“I’m so sorry, Andrea. Goodnight, sweetheart. I’ll be home as soon as I can. I love you. x” the last text read.

Andrea smiled despite herself, exhaustion blurring the edges of her irritation.

She understood.

Another tired yawn and she stood, stretched and relished the pop and crack of vertebrae re-aligning themselves. Scooping up her phone, she typed out a message as she padded towards the bedroom.

“Don’t worry about it, Sharon. I understand. I’ll see you when you’re done. Text me if you need anything.”

Andrea paused at the threshold of their bedroom, leaned against the doorjamb.

“I love you. Be safe. xx”

She sent off that final text and wandered into their bedroom, plugged her phone in. Pressed play on the stereo system.

The familiar strains of a solo violin floated about her as she stepped into the closet, contemplated what to wear the next day. Idly she hummed along to the melody, flicking through a collection of jackets. The charcoal pantsuit, she decided, and the sky blue blouse.

(Sharon loved that blouse, had fingered its hem tenderly as she whispered along Andrea’s jaw how they reflected her eyes)

She hung the suit and blouse at the end of the rail, ready for the following morning. A luxuriant soprano poured out of the speakers about her, and she smiled fondly at the song’s text.

_And tomorrow the sun will shine again; and on the way which I shall follow, She will again unite us lucky ones._

How true, Andrea mused, as she thoughtfully rifled through Sharon’s (larger) half of the wardrobe.

Everything that mattered would still be there for her, come sunrise.

(she hoped, and prayed, for the alternative never bore thought)

_As all around us the earth breathes into the sun_

The cream dress, Andrea decided, pulling it out from amongst its fellows. Sharon had left the condo in her black blazer and black pumps this morning; this would go nicely, Andrea thought, slipping it into a protective garment bag. A quick rummage across the shelves led to the quick assembly of another bag of things Sharon would need – makeup remover wipes, fresh underwear (Andrea tried not to blush as she untangled a pair of lacy nude panties from a pile in the drawer), fresh pantyhose.

A thoughtful hum as the music swelled; she pictured Sharon at the crime scene, miserably breathing in that sickly sweet combination of blood and dirt, the elements of fertility gone perversely wrong.

She tossed in the extra bottle of her own perfume.

(she had noticed Sharon wearing it once, and when she had asked, her lover had shyly confessed that wearing Andrea’s scent had been a small comfort to her after a particularly trying case; a reminder that Andrea was there, always)

Nodding in satisfaction, Andrea backed out of the closet, shed her clothes in a systematic pile, tossed each garment into the laundry basket with unerring ease.

_Slowly, silently, we will climb down; to the wide beach and the blue waves_

Andrea allowed her mind to wander for a moment as she ambled into the bathroom, thought fondly of the holidays she had taken with her parents when she was young. The bright beaches of France, sun and surf licking lazily across her skin as she scrambled across scraggly outcrops, raced her brother to the secret cove they had discovered.

(and then later, the kisses she had shared with a summer romance, bittersalt with the waves and the cresting autumn chill as they said goodbye)

Perhaps they should take a break, Andrea mused, as she stood under the warm spray of the shower, Renee Fleming’s voice a muffled richness through the pounding against her skin.

Yes, Andrea decided, as she slicked back her hair, rinsed conditioner efficiently from the strands. They would take a break. If not this weekend, then soon. Just her and Sharon, up the coast. Away from Los Angeles.

Away from death.

_In silence, we will look in each other’s eyes_

They’d bring a picnic - wicker basket and gingham picnic blanket, pasta salads and fresh fruit. Sharon would wear one of her ridiculous hats, fair skin freckling as she flicked through a book of poetry, bare toes wriggling in the air as she lay on her belly. Every now and then Andrea would wordlessly hand Sharon the canister of sunscreen, and Sharon would hand it right back, gesture for Andrea to re-apply the precious mist as she murmured a line of poetry out loud, with ageless eyes and a voice laced with the amber of untold promises. Andrea would smile, softly, indulge Sharon’s desire to be pampered, rub cool liquid into warm skin, smooth palms across the dips and planes of her lover’s body, reverent.

Sharon would murmur her appreciation in rhyming couplets, tongue strawberry sweet against Andrea’s, cool hands cradled about her lover’s face, green eyes boring into blue.

Love, unspoken; a smile, beatific, and a long, soft kiss, eyelashes dark and fair fluttering in life’s simplest pleasure.

_And the mute stillness of happiness will sink upon us._

Yes, Andrea decided. They would take a break, Sharon and her. The solo violin faded to silence, and Andrea smiled into her pillow, reached a hand to touch Sharon’s.

Tomorrow.

They’d make plans, tomorrow.


End file.
